


the death of a soldier

by simplyclockwork



Series: oh captain, my captain [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Captain John Watson, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingering, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rough Sex, Smut, Soldier John Watson, Top John Watson, bottomlock, brief spanking, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24202249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: John follows through with his threat to fuck Sherlock into the mattress.A continuation ofwild rideandranger panties
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: oh captain, my captain [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740022
Comments: 52
Kudos: 323





	the death of a soldier

**Author's Note:**

> title isn't what it seems (no one dies), and is taken from a poem of the same name by Wallace Stevens.
> 
> don't worry, this version is the best metaphorical death.

Sherlock wakes to late-afternoon sun, a dull, not unpleasant ache in his lower body, and a soldier pressed against his back. John’s arm is locked around his waist, fingers spread over Sherlock’s lower stomach in a possessive way he’s never encountered with any of his prior bedmates. As he stretches the kinks from his back and arms, John hums low beside his ear and slowly ruts against him with a languid roll of his hips. 

“Mmm, hello,” John murmurs, his already impressively-hard erection grinding against the rise of Sherlock’s arse cheeks. 

“‘Hello,’ indeed,” Sherlock replies, the words lilting up into a gasp as John’s arm tightens, drawing Sherlock harder against him, hips continuing their slow movements. 

“I wonder…” John’s fingers trail over his shoulders, down his spine, body shifting back slightly to make space for his exploration of Sherlock’s skin. “If you’re still…” fingers caress the curve of his hip, before slipping lower, brushing over Sherlock’s slick, stretched entrance and making him groan. John matches the sound, nuzzling the back of Sherlock’s neck and scraping his teeth over the skin. “Oh, god, you _are_ ,” he breathes, nipping beneath his ear as he works two fingers into Sherlock’s still-slick hole. The slide is sleek and easy, John’s fingers slipping inside up to the last knuckles in a smooth glide. 

The sensation is exquisite, Sherlock muffling a gasping sob against his fist before John reaches up with the hand on his waist, gripping his wrist and pinning it down to the mattress. 

“No, baby,” he whispers, mouthing over Sherlock’s ear, tongue tracing the delicate contours. “I want to hear you, let me hear you.” His fingers twist and hook, making Sherlock whine low and long in response, eyes nearly rolling back in his head. 

_“Oh.”_ Sherlock curls in on himself, limbs twitching. “Oh, _god_ , how are you doing that?”

John’s soft chuckle tickles over the side of his neck. “Army-doctor, remember? I know what I’m looking for.” Sinking his teeth against the edge of Sherlock’s jaw, tracing the sharp angles with his tongue, he whispers, “Just a second, should be... _ahhhh.”_ His fingers press against the bundle of nerves inside of Sherlock, making him jerk and spasm, crying out as sudden, trembling pleasure washes over his body. Sweat springs up on his skin, fingers clenching helplessly at the sheets. 

“Fuck, oh, oh, John,” he babbles, eyes closed tightly. John grins, lips curving against the underside of his jaw.

“Yeah, say my name,” the soldier pants, pressing up against his back and rutting his hard cock into the dip of Sherlock’s lower back. “God, I want to make you beg for it.” 

Sherlock’s only response is to whimper as John’s fingers press against his prostate again. His body spasms, cock growing hard, twitching proud and stiff against his lower stomach. 

“Touch me,” he breathes desperately. “Oh, John, oh, fuck, touch me.” 

“Not yet.” John’s voice is a heady growl against the back of his shoulder. Fingers crooking and twisting, his other hand slides over Sherlock’s thighs, hip, stomach and chest to grip the detective’s chin. John tilts Sherlock's head back to lathe his tongue over his throat. “I meant it, gorgeous. I’m going to make you beg for mercy.” 

“I’ve never begged for mercy in my life,” Sherlock gasps out, the words broken, thready and breathless. John’s thick, eager cock skids against his spine, fingers curling to make him shout as a third slips inside. 

“You will,” John promises, low and fervent, lifting himself to find Sherlock’s mouth. Coaxing it open with his tongue, he sucks hard on his bottom lip until Sherlock can feel his pulse beating in the flesh, wild and unsteady as John whispers, “ _Twice.”_

“Oh, god.” Sherlock goes limp then tense, his entire body turning rigid under John’s ministrations. The pleasure is all-consuming, burning away any possibility of coherent thought. It reduces him to tunnel-vision, narrowing the world to John’s mouth on his, John’s fingers inside him, John’s rock-hard erection sliding between the curve of his arse. He aches for it, body twitching around John’s touch, pleading for more, for a hand on him, for sheets to writhe against, for relieving friction to press into.

John’s fingers massage and spread. They stretch his already loose body open wider, drawing a mumbling plea from Sherlock's lips that melds into a high, sighing whine of need. 

“John, John, please,” he whimpers, hips twitching forward into empty air. “I need, I need…” he shakes his head, losing his grip on language as the head of John’s cock brushes against his twitching hole, balanced on the back of his twisting hand. 

“What?” Panting now, voice unsteady, John grips Sherlock’s jaw and angles his head back to look into his face. The soldier’s eyes are dark, eyelids heavy, skin flushed. “What do you want? Tell me, Sherlock.” His head ducks, pressing hot, sloppy kisses to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, his sharp cheekbones and throat as the detective swallows, sucking in loud gasps of air. “Let me hear you beg for it.”

“Please, John, John,” Sherlock chants, reaching out to grip John’s broad shoulder, his upper body half-turned toward the man at his back. “Fuck me, touch me, anything. Oh, god, _anything,_ please, just, oh, fuck—” the words choke and die in his throat as John bites hard onto his neck, working his teeth slowly against the muscle. _“Please, John,”_ he sobs, writhing against John’s chest and cock. Pressing hard to his lower back, the soldier leaks precum onto Sherlock’s skin, matching the dripping tip of Sherlock’s aching erection. “Fuck, yes, yes, fuck me, John.” The low groan John growls against his shoulder sets Sherlock alight, sending him into desperate ecstasy as John’s fingers are finally replaced with his cock. His body is loose and tense in alternating shivers, entrance turned slick, open and urgent for filling. “John, _yes_ , John!” 

John penetrates him with one hard push of his hips, pressing into Sherlock with a long, drawn-out snarl. His teeth scrape over the delicate rise of vertebrae at the top of Sherlock’s bent neck, painting shivers over his skin that ripple through his limbs. “I knew it,” John sighs, pressing his forehead to the back of Sherlock’s head, nuzzling into sweat-dampened curls. “I knew you could beg.” 

Sherlock’s only reply is a near-sob, catching in his throat when John’s hips slide back and snap forward, the head of his cock finding the already humming node inside him. Agonizing bliss washes over Sherlock, making him claw at the sheets and bite hard on the corner of his pillow. Breathing a groan against his skull, John shifts, pressing Sherlock onto his stomach and pinning him against the mattress with his body. His hips continue their movements, a slow, almost punishing slide that rocks the headboard against the wall with every downward thrust. 

Groaning, Sherlock works his hips against the bed, cock leaking onto the sheets. “Faster, John, oh, _harder,_ go harder.” 

“Christ, you’re amazing,” John pants the words against the join between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. “Brilliant, fantastic, gorgeous— _fuck!_ —so good, so good…” His hips slam forward, the intoxicating sound of skin-on-skin obscenely loud, driving Sherlock into a needy mess, writhing and whining for more. 

“Fuck, yes, fuck me harder,” he demands, voice rising with frantic insistence. 

John’s open palm connects with one of his arse cheeks, the slap ringing out, drawing a shout from Sherlock’s open mouth. He does it again, and Sherlock’s body clenches, mixing pain and pleasure into an intoxicating chemical cocktail in his brain. 

“Grab the headboard,” John snaps, the hard power in his voice making Sherlock groan.

“Oh, god, _Captain Watson,_ is that an order?” 

John licks up the side of his neck before biting hard at the edge of his jaw. “You bet your fine fucking ass it is, private.”

His breathing quickening, turning shallow and desperate, Sherlock scrambles to obey. He pants, “Yessir, yessir,” and grabs the headboard with white-knuckled hands, thighs shaking when John slips out to grip his hips with bruising force. 

“Good boy,” he whispers before dropping slow, wet kisses over Sherlock’s spine. The gentle sensation is borderline torture with the absence of the soldier inside him. John’s cock brushes the inside of his thigh, and Sherlock groans as John guides it between his arse cheeks in a slow slide that brushes past his hole to dribble precum onto the small of his back. 

“Captain,” Sherlock gasps, pleading. He wiggles his hips, back arched with arms locked in front of him, nails digging crescents into the wood of the headboard. “Captain, _please!”_

John’s teeth graze his buttock, followed by tongue and sucking pressure. “‘Please’ what?” he asks, biting down and making Sherlock’s hips buck forward, leaking cock finding nothing but empty space.

“Fuck me!” Sherlock bends his knees, leaning back to press himself to the dip of John’s thighs. “Fuck me, fuck me, Captain.” 

Pressing his smirk to the inside of a thigh, John drags his tongue over the sweaty crease of Sherlock’s groin. “Mmmm. As you wish, _private.”_

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but John grips him by the hips and thrusts into him with a feral growl. His fingers tighten, digging bruises into flesh still aching from their earlier session. The sensation of being suddenly filled again makes Sherlock’s body clench. John voices a frantic sound behind him, hips jerking in response. 

The rhythm he takes up is wildly rough, slamming into Sherlock without holding back. One hand stays on his hips, fingers curled around Sherlock’s iliac crest. The other wanders over his lower back, thighs, the bend of his spine, wherever John can reach to paint bright red lines over the skin with blunt nails. Sherlock's head hangs between his outstretched arms. The force of John’s movements makes him bang the headboard and his curled knuckles into the wall as Sherlock pants breathlessly through an almost constant whine of pleasure. 

Dimly, Sherlock wonders if Mrs. Hudson has returned home and if the noise is audible downstairs. He almost feels embarrassed. Then, John snarls into his shoulder, pressing against his back and forcing Sherlock to lock his arms to keep from being shoved into the wall. 

As John hammers into him with a loud shout, words lost to the breathless, choked quality of his voice, his hand slides around and beneath Sherlock’s stomach. It grips his cock, throbbing and leaking a steady trail of arousal from the slit. John's thumb brushes over the head, spreading precome down the shaft, slicking his hold as he strokes in a long, gliding twist from root to tip. 

Crying out, Sherlock’s hips jerk forward, John following the movement with his thrust, driving home with another sleek pull on Sherlock’s slender cock. The sensation sets off a slow burn in the base of Sherlock’s spine that travels to his brain like a raging wildfire, exploding in a delirious whiteout inside his skull. 

Mouth falling open, nearly drooling from the force of it, Sherlock orgasms with his entire body. Jerking back and forward, his locked arms and John’s punishing grip on his hips barely keep him from curling into himself. Everything goes tight, Sherlock's muscles clenching, gripping. John fucks into him once, twice, three times before coming with a savage howl barely muffled by pushing his face against the curve of Sherlock’s neck. 

The comedown is violent, Sherlock working to force his trembling fingers to release the headboard. Without the anchor of his arms, John’s weight bears them both down to the mattress, the soldier still twitching through his climax deep inside Sherlock. The feeling of his cock spurting hot and hard within him has Sherlock whining into the sheets, eyes closed, cheek shoved into the bedding with John groaning in his ear. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock, oh, god. I’m dead, you’ve killed me, oh, _fuuckk._ ” John's body jerks fiercely one last time before he collapses against Sherlock’s back, their skin sticking together with sweat.

“Will you still fuck me when you’re a ghost?” Sherlock mumbles, voice muffled by the pillow beneath his face. “Or do I have to figure out how to reanimate you?”

John’s breathy little laugh against his neck makes goosebumps rise on his skin. 

“With _that_ arse? You’re not getting rid of me so easily.” He mouths over Sherlock’s shoulder, panting in broken gasps. “I am _definitely_ going to haunt the fuck out of you.” 

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hums, “you’d better.” 

John’s lips press against the back of his neck, followed by the barest hint of teeth. “Promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, I repurposed the "beg for mercy twice" line.  
> eat it, canon.


End file.
